


Bedlam

by snakeyed



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Blood and Injury, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Cigarettes, Codependency, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Humor, Hallucinations, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insomnia, M/M, Medicine, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, References to Depression, Schizophrenia, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeyed/pseuds/snakeyed
Summary: Heiwajima Shizuo and Orihara Izaya involuntarily end up trapped in a psychiatric institution's two week rehabilitation program together. Chaos ensues.
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo & Orihara Izaya, Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya, Kida Masaomi/Ryuugamine Mikado, Kishitani Shinra/Celty Sturluson, Sonohara Anri & Sonohara Sayaka
Kudos: 24





	1. Needless To Say

**Author's Note:**

> TW/Disclaimer: This chapter contains themes that strongly suggest a suicide attempt. There are also graphic depictions of blood and vomit. If you are triggered by such subject matter, I urge you not to read this fan fiction. You have been warned.

"Fuck you," Shizuo muttered under his breath to no one in particular. Nonetheless, he threw himself down with a heated growl, then inclined his head with visible effort. "And fuck you, too." He added this second curse as an afterthought, directing his attention away from his angry, throbbing red knuckles, to the poster hanging half-heartedly from the wall behind him. It was a card stock image of Methyl Ethyl at live concert, about an arm's length long -- a gift from Tom after he had discovered Shizuo's penchant for alternative punk rock.

Pathetic. They were looking at him funny.

With an irritable grunt, Shizuo sprung up from his perch upon the apartment's only chair and tore the goddamned thing from its mooring. The corner was ripped from its pin with such force, it clattered across the floor, bouncing off a wall before joining its brethren in skittering haphazardly to a stop on the other side of the room. The needle was bent almost completely in half, tack up, just waiting to be stepped on. Shizuo glared at it, just daring the little shit to even think about it. The poster was in tatters, clenched tight in his fist. He dropped it with chagrin.

However, his new perspective of the apartment suddenly gripped his heart with icy cold fingers, and he was immediately reminded of the choice he had just made. The stupid, recklessly impulsive, decision, the actions he had mechanically taken to go through with it -- the medicine, the alcohol -- and the consequence that would soon follow. Methyl Ethyl peered up at him from the floor.

"God -- fuck. _Shit_."

He had done a real number, this time around.

Books lay bent open in uncomfortably violent positions, broken at the spines from the vigor with which they had been hurled to the ground; the shelf was attached to the wall with only one nail and swung gently back and forth. A squat garbage bin sat knocked over onto one side, spilling trash from its gaping maw like an urban cornucopia. The empty bags of chips and cheap, microwavable dinner cups glinted in the fluorescent lights, which flickered dangerously overhead, wiring frayed. Blankets had been stripped from the mattress and shredded like tissue paper, there was a hairbrush on the ground, snapped at the handle, and a white mesh walled laundry basket sat precariously atop a pile of discarded clothing like whipped cream on top of a strawberry shortcake.

Shizuo gazed out upon the destruction in his rumpled dress shirt, fully unbuttoned, and a pair of plaid boxers, chest heaving and hair standing on end. His bangs sat fastened to his forehead -- practically super glued -- matted with sharp, stinging sweat. And his eyes -- his eyes were encircled in swollen, scarlet skin; tortured picture frames; berserk with fury; they were the crazed eyes of a rabid dog.

With a roar, Shizuo slammed his arm down on his dumpy wooden desk and swept every thing off of it, sending miscellanea flying. The television set took the blunt of the blow and crashed to the floor, sending up glass in waves. The chair rocked behind him, as if startled, and fell sideways with a thud. His pulse twitched and his fingers curled in on themselves, itching to turn round, pick up the worthless chattel, and bash it repeatedly into the hardwood until it was a mountain of cushion stuffing and splinters.

" _Fuck you._ "

Shizuo spun to the hallway mirror and clutched the convenient little outcropping he had found so charming as to put up a photo of his brother on it so hard it came to pieces in his bare hands. Smoldering at his own reflection, his voice cracked, from verbal abuse or from what he knew was in store for him, it didn't matter. His shoulders relaxed. At least he would be ridding the world of a burdensome monster. It would keep on spinning, if it wasn't all the better for it. He'd wait it out. Maybe light up, sit back, and let it all wash over him; how he had wasted his life. The rest of the energy -- the motivation to pulverize that had kept Shizuo on his feet -- was vacuumed from his body. He watched the ferocity -- the fight -- melt from his features. He couldn't be bothered to be mad anymore. Shizuo laughed dryly, detachedly; it sounded like the punch line to the worst joke ever told. He couldn't recognize that laugh, and it disgusted him. But Shizuo couldn't be angry; he was only getting what he deserved. Paid his due, as they say. What goes around comes around, and he had had it coming.

A series of sharp, nervous, almost tentative knocks abruptly blared through Shizuo's morbid train of thought. The bartender turned on his heel and immediately punched out the peep-hole, sending a cloud of dust, plaster and distilled chemicals back into his own face. The particles grabbed hold of his sticky cheeks and clung like parasites; like fleas. He shoved the thought aside as quickly as it had come.

"Shizuo?" A rather petrified voice asked from the other side of the door.

"Get fucking lost," said the Shizuo in question.

"I -- ah. I'm sorry -- um. I just wanted to uh -- well," the perpetrator stuttered. Shizuo growled, blinking the grit from his eyes, and pulled his balled fist back through the new hole in his front door. Or he began to attempt to; the door instead decided to peel off of its hinges, sealed about his wrist like a friendship bracelet. He scowled down at it with distaste before peeking through the crumbling doorway, finally able to identify his intruder.

"Alex?" Shizuo's tone slurred and he winced. His head felt fuzzy, like his brain was gaining weight, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. All at once, his balance weaved through the air, swaying. He turned a halted half circle one way, then the other, before taking a stumbling step in reverse. The back of his knees hit a mattress and Shizuo sat down hard on the edge of his bed. His front door slipped down the length of his arm and hit the floor, sending the remnants of the covers scattered about the underneath of Shizuo's shoes, decorating the dirty white rug like confetti, fluttering up into the air.

 _Holy shit. Well I guess this is what dying feelings like. Makes sense_ , he thought. An unfamiliar prickle at the corner of his eyes made him snarl, weakly, as if he could hardly breathe. Alex had reached out an awkward, wringing hand as if he wanted to steady the poor man's descent into vertigo, but was too afraid to touch him. He had stood there, gawking, hardly unable to comprehend his own thoughts thanks to the mass destruction splayed out before him. However, at the sight of Shizuo unable to stand, hunched over like a dazed child, he ventured into the doorway of Apartment 006, mouth firmly set and chin trembling.

"Are you okay?" Shizuo gurgled out a guffaw, and without lifting his brow, spat down at the ground.

"Get out of my fucking house or I'll -- " His voice failed him and he swallowed with difficulty. "I'll pick up this bed frame and crush you like a fucking soda can." Then, Shizuo proceeded to puke. Alex stared for a moment, awe-struck, then nodded as if this proved an essential point, scratched the back of his neck, and scurried off, back down the hall from whence he came. At first, Shizuo was grateful for the privacy. Maybe he was abandoning him to his fate. _As he should_ , the man thought with bitter repute. But then, Shizuo lost himself in the convulsions. They came in rapid succession, one after the other, bearing down on him without mercy. Before he could classify up from down and left from right, he had fallen off of the bed and was propped up on his knees, gasping for air. The power of his own humanity crashed down upon him. Vomit stung his bare knees, it was hot; steaming. It was being wrestled out of him, forced up, surging and swelling. He fumbled in his mind, desperate for an end to the agony, grappled for an ounce of rage, something to present him with protection, anything. He was appalled at the magnitude of his fear; there was only fear.

If Alex had left him, had given up, just as everyone else had, no one would find him here. Not for days maybe, perhaps weeks. No one particularly cared about him unless he was causing violence, inconveniencing the world with violence. Stupid, useless violence, the kind he could never escape from; it stalked him as closely as his own shadow, making quite certain his loneliness would follow suit. It chased off anyone who dared to smile down upon him, and it held him close later, once he was alone, yearning for someone to hold that wouldn't break. Tom was his only contact besides his brother, who hardly felt inclined enough to grace Shizuo with his presence. It was pitiful. He was entirely alone. His metronome of consciousness teetered back and forth, off beat, whimsical in its placement and patterns. The inconsistency mocked him; he was uncertain how long he had been floating there. Perhaps he was drowning.

For a moment, a confused, kaleidoscope minded moment, Shizuo wondered if Izaya Orihara would miss him.

 _Damn_.

By the time Alex had returned to pace the length of Shizuo's parlor, phone in hand, pressed flank to his ear, Shizuo was out cold in a puddle of his own stomach acid.

* * *

A rough hand slapped down on the back of Shizuo's collar, dragging him out of the water. Everything was enormously loud and horrendously excruciating, all at once. Words strung into sentences that would have normally made sense beat his brain with a metal mallet.

"Is he responsive?" A woman.

"Sir -- sir? Can you hear me?"

"He's breathing."

"Can you hear me? Sir?"

How many of them _were_ there? They sounded like flies, buzzing about, and it was annoying how their voices faded in and out of hearing; they were zipping to and fro. Clothes rustled and furniture moved. People were touching him, cleaning him, propping him up. There was a blood pressure armband squeezing the shit out of his arm, there was a thermometer being pressed to the back of his throat, there were dizzying colors and faces and eyes scrunched up behind hazmat googles. Insects. Pests. _Annoying_.

For a moment, Shizuo couldn't help but feel like the whole situation was rather ironic. The EMS were in his living room, trying to save his life. On a typical Saturday night, they would have been trying to scrape what was left of the people he had damaged up off of the carpet, and they'd be chasing after him in cars that shrieked and threw whirling lights up on on the sides of buildings to flash obnoxiously against city windows. Ikebukuro would wake up and he would be the culprit. He would be scrambling over rooftops and collapsing into quiet safety, where he could brood the streets in his guilt and fill his lungs with nicotine. But here he was, being shaken like a baby rattle; the whole thing seemed rather absurd. But then, he thought, maybe it wasn't. Then he wondered what time it was. He threw up in his mouth.

"I um -- I heard the crashing and the yelling -- it's not like they weren't normal but I thought -- well, I thought someone was in there with him, maybe -- hurting. I thought someone was hurt."

"He hurt someone?"

"No! No, no .. No, I don't know. I don't know what I thought I just knew it wasn't good. It sounded. Bad, you know? It sounded bad."

"There was no one else here with him."

"No, I _told_ you -- "

Shizuo flinched as he was yanked up into a sitting position. He kept his eyes sealed shut. His stomach lurched up into his mouth and he groaned. It sounded more like a sob.

"No one was here, I just told you that. He was here -- that's all. I thought there might be -- I just knew I had to call you. Is he gonna be okay?"

Finally, Shizuo cracked his eyes open, only to have a flashlight beam thrust into his face. "Sir?"

"Jesus -- fucking Christ. Gimme a break," he croaked, throwing up a hand. His muscles protested in every way possible and he instead slapped himself across one cheek. It left a smear of something he could only assume was foul. A hand grabbed his jaw, holding it still, jostling his wits, and he was momentarily blinded. He retched again. A plastic grocery bag was tentatively placed upon his leg and he scooped it up just in time.

"He's responsive, alright." Another flashlight and the beep of a walkie talkie; static. The walls flared red, blue, then red again.

"Target Destination Responsive, 500 hours. Young adult, male. SI, currently stable, over."

"Confirmed. You're clear to stabilize."

"Is he gonna be okay?" Alex was silhouetted in the doorway, white as a sheet. Tom had manifested behind him, glasses slipping down his nose. Who had called him? An irrefutable embarrassment overcame his unbearable nausea, bubbling up in Shizuo's gut. His face felt warm, driving away the crisp September air. Someone had opened a window to clear up the stench. It smashed Shizuo upside the head, like a punishment. He supposed it was well warranted; after everything Tom had done for him, he had to witness yet another ungrateful temper tantrum. Sneaking a second glance, Shizuo could see Tom's eyes, stretched wide with horror and disbelief. His deftly boned cheeks were sucked in as if he were blowing up a party balloon. Shizuo contemplated his hands.

"Let's get him up -- "

"Sir? Can you stand?"

"I don't think he can. He was wobbling earlier and he -- well, he fell over."

"He fell over? God. Why didn't he call me? Shit -- God."

"Not really fell! No, more like um -- he just lost his balance .. "

"God."

Shame. There was too much shame. 

"Get some pants on him. He's not wearing pants."

"How much did he drink? Did you ask him?"

"Clear the way you two."

There were hands under Shizuo's armpits and he thrashed, kicking. The mortification gave him spite; a means to detest once more, and it animated his body with adrenaline. It didn't last long. Everything was softening into mush, descending; fading into shades of grey. He could hear himself shouting, screaming, writhing. His foot connected with something malleable and mortal; a nurse yelped and was thrown against the wall. It cracked and caved underneath his weight. Alex grabbed Tom's sleeve and they clambered to escape. It took him a full thirty seconds to hear his own cries.

"Don't fucking touch me. I"ll _kill_ you, don't _fucking_ touch me."

For the second time that night, dead-weight with humiliation and self loathing, Shizuo Heiwajima swooned, suspended by three bleeding service responders over a puddle of regurgitated spaghettios.


	2. Blatant Disregard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya is a (depressed) smartass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/Disclaimer: This chapter mentions drugs and suggests mood swings as well as dissociation.

"Finger."

Izaya wiggled the long, bony pointer of his right hand in the nurse's general direction with smug expectation. She snapped the heart monitor clip down upon it with disdain and turned away from her patient -- albeit as politely as possible. Together, they watched the machine's multi-colored monitor; it's dull beeping was the only noise suited to fill the silence shared between them.

After a moment or two, Izaya bent his neck to one side, rolling his shoulder. It cracked. She sighed. With a pleasant smile, he proceeded to stretch, yawn, and settle with a noisy creak in his chair. He stared at her face, then her name tag. He hummed, tapped his foot, then threw it across his knee, bobbing it in the air. She avoided his gaze, lips thin with displeasure, as if he were nothing more than an obnoxious child she was simply obligated to take care of. Her eyes flickered back and forth, watching him from the corner of her peripheral. It was a test of patience. 

Finally, the computer hummed. 

"Alright, looks good," she said, retrieving the clip. The infamous informant flexed his finger once more, this time as if it had survived a great discomfort and he was relieving it of any lingering agony. "Thanks Pat," he replied. For dramatic effect, he then shook out his hand, tenderly rubbing it back to health. "Really appreciate your work."

Nurse "Pat" Patricia cringed from the bottom of her baby blue eyes as Izaya ripped off his own blood pressure wrap. The velcro was torn as it came undone, practically screaming out loud. He handed it over as if presenting a Christmas present. Smiling wanly, she accepted it, then began to collect her equipment, wrapping wires around the handles of her cart. He watched her closely, leaning forward; she was looping them about in the fashion one would return a garden hose to its reel. His cheek twitched when her hands slipped, not yet used to the motions. Izaya pounced upon the opportunity.

"Are you new? I haven't seen you here before. How often do they put you to work? 12 hours a day? That must be rough." 

She didn't answer.

"If you aren't used to it yet, I can't blame you. Hospital hours are just ridiculous. Do they have you juggling nights yet? Oh, those are fun." He waited. No response. "Do you like it here?"

She wheeled her cart to the door, trying her best to ignore him. The end of a cord dragged across the ground. In the doorway she paused and looked back at him. Izaya raised both eyebrows, beaming amiably. "Nose on the grindstone, huh? No time to chat, I understand. Next time." She wasn't moving. A twinge of annoyance pinged at the center of his chest, as if his rib had brushed a lung. "Rush hour must be such a chore. Maybe they'll give you a raise. You have a kid right? That'll help out, won't it?" 

Patricia opened her mouth -- waited. Wisely, she closed it again. She thought better of what she had been planning to say. With a parting, cordial nod, she smiled again, shakily, pupils blown wide with bewilderment, and dismissed herself without a backward glance. Izaya hadn't failed to notice the lack of a ring upon her left hand -- there was only a pale, shapely tan line that suggested there had once been one. 

"Good luck!" Izaya called out to her silhouette, bustling away down the hallway. "He probably wasn't worth it!"

As soon as he was alone, he sighed, loud and long, looking around as if observing his surroundings for the first time. His attention almost immediately fell upon the domed camera attached to the cheaply tiled ceiling. It sloped like a raindrop caught on the bottom of a leaf, winking a bright red light every three to four seconds. Izaya grinned and pretended to get comfortable in his heavily weighted, straight backed seat. For whoever was watching him, he then raised a gentle hand, as if gratefully acknowledging a favor. "Cozy! Thank you."

He let his eyes wander around the room, calculating his resources -- the cot shoved against the far wall, no blankets, one flat, mushy pillow, the sink tucked into a dark corner, no soap to speak of, and the television screen mounted flat above him, smeared with oily fingerprints and clotting dust. It smelled like piss and humans gone stale. His expression of contentment gave way, and irritability settled over his features. Exhaustion was taking hold. A month's worth of eye-bags seemed to materialize in an instant under the flat of his cheekbones, sagging in warm purple streaks. His tone dropped at least three octaves. "Thank you very much." 

With a groan, Izaya let go of his ankle, which he had been cradling in his lap, and let it drop it to floor with a resounding thud. He peeled himself from the seat and stood, dubiously surveying the folded scrubs left for him on the floor. They wanted him to change, no doubt, and they'd watch to make sure he wasn't storing anything under his clothing. The metal door was cracked, without a way to click shut, and a hallway lay in wait outside. He knew from personal experience there was a dead end if he turned left, and a mechanical gate that would only relay access to an admin's identification card on the right. There was a payphone across the way; they only gave you tokens if you behaved. There was a window to order food, coffee, and sleeping drugs, protecting the nurses inside with bulletproof glass. He knew; he had paced that hallway many times before.

And yet, here he was again. 

With a sour taste in his mouth, he stooped down and scooped up the stiff paper clothing, threw them onto the bed, and stripped. 

* * *

"You have to help me. Don't you understand -- you have to help me! You're not helping me! Listen -- don't you believe me? You're supposed to believe me." A feminine, reassuring tone attempted to console whoever was yelling as loudly as their lungs would allow. "No, you're not _listening_." They pounded a flat surface with their fists. "Listen to me! They -- They killed him. Listen to me. Listen to me! I saw them kill him -- " A beat. "No. No, you can't do that. You'll have to hold me back. You'll have to hold me back! _You'll have to hold me back_!" Someone screamed in suffering; the sounds of rapid, running footsteps and a resulting struggle filled the unit.

" _They killed my brother._ "

Izaya calmly opened his eyes. He had been sleeping in a shallow state of restless apathy and the ruckus had brought him back to full consciousness. He yawned and rubbed his eyes as he sat up; at some point in the night -- was it night? There were no clocks to determine the time, here -- he had knocked the pillow off of the cot and it was laying on the ground, looking like a particularly miserable marshmallow. Someone must have entered to take his clothing, as well; he had left his shirt, jeans and eminent, fur-hooded jacket in a brown paper bag with his room number on it. Hopefully they'd get them through the laundry in less than two days; it was freezing. 

Izaya swung his legs over the side of the bed and stepped down onto the linoleum, groggily making his way to the door. Outside, two security guards were wrestling a middle aged woman to the ground. She was tiny, only five feet tall at most, with olive skin. Her long brown hair swung in wide, violent arcs. In a state of panic, she was scratching the empty air, clawing at an invisible force, and yowling like a wounded cat. She slipped out of the thin flannel she was wearing, dashed forward in a shirt that slipped down one shoulder, and was pinned again, dragged to the floor by her forearm. She cried out in pain. The nurse seated behind the window was huddled up against the glass, staring off into space like a nesting bird. Izaya blinked, wondering to the benefit of his own curiosity if she was trying to give the woman decency, or will away her presence by pretending that it didn't exist. With an idle shrug, he pushed the door open.

"G'morning," he called out, padding over to the window. Holding out his bracelet marked Orihara Izaya-- littered with bar codes and ID numbers -- to be scanned, he forced a smile that didn't quite reach the blank cavern of his rust-hued eyes. "Can I have some milk and a nicotine patch?" The nurse stared right back at him, right _through_ him, as if he were an apparition she could hardly give the time of day. She glanced over his shoulder at the woman who was now being held down and restrained with blocky plastic hand cuffs. He turned his hand over to present his QR code, reclaiming her attention. His voice came out in a rasp. "Please?" 

She sniffed, coming to, and readjusted her glasses. They hung from a beaded string that was tucked behind her ears on either side, and he watched it dangle as she opened a drawer, thumbed through the files, and withdrew his packet. After a brief glance, she lifted her aquiline nose and pointed it straight at him. Her face changed momentarily, as if she was surprised by what she saw, then it composed itself, returning to an agreeable neutrality. "It says here you aren't a smoker?" 

"They help me stay um .. " Izaya searched for the right word, clasping his hands on the counter. Why had she looked at him like that? His nerves were making them shake, and he didn't want to be seen twitching first thing in the morning. It really did feel like morning. Hence, his desire for milk. He always had milk first thing in the morning. She must have seen the urgency on his face, because she peeked over his shoulder again, bit the inside of her cheek and held up a finger, signaling him to wait a moment. He did so, and crossed his ankles as she returned the file.

The wheelie chair complained as she stood, wobbled over to a fridge and opened it. Inside were rows of juice boxes, milk cartons, and ginger ales. Izaya pointed languidly, trying to appear unbothered. "Fat free is good. The strawberry tastes funny." She smiled warmly and brought over two cartons of fat free milk. "I think so too."

The woman on the floor moaned. 

"When do the phones turn on?" Izaya asked with an air of casualty, glancing at the clock hanging in the room behind the glass. It was -- give or take -- 4:45 am. She slid the nicotine patch into his waiting hands. "8:00 am, sharp. Keep that quiet, okay?" She nodded to the sticker he was now applying to his upper arm. "We're not supposed to give them to non-smokers. They're for withdrawal therapy."

He nodded, face stoic. "I know."

She frowned for a moment. "If she doesn't -- if she can't um .. " She cleared her throat. She was referring to the name she had seen printed on the file under Emergency Contact. "If she can't pay for your discharge, you'll have to -- " 

He nodded again, brow darkened by dread, one carton in each hand. "I know." 

Walking the length of the hallway to bring feeling back to his legs, Izaya drank one fat free milk. He downed it all at once, chugging it down, and threw it away in the thickset trash bin at the end of the hall. Hunger gnawed at the pit of his stomach, and he pictured a salty everything bagel, lathered in cream cheese. Then he pushed it away. He couldn't eat, not yet. Leaning against the wall, he opened the second milk, coaxing the cardboard labeled To Open, and sipped. This time he took it slow. The flavor was unapparent and flat, but he didn't mind. It passed the time and soothed his throat. 

Thanks to the outburst as well as the boredom of the unit's occupants, most of the metal doors were cracked open wide enough for someone to see through -- any show was appreciated, after all. Now, the patients had returned to their television screens, sitting up on their beds, entranced by the flashing images, the braindead relief. Others had retreated back to their haunted dreams, preferring a different kind of broadcast. Izaya walked back the other way, letting his rapid fire thoughts fizzle into white noise; the snippets of advertisements, radio drawl and snoring took root like a cocktail party in his head, and he faded away. He peered into each room, trying to convince himself he was riveted to the people that remained suspended within them, trapped here temporarily, in a world that lacked life. With a tense sense of self revulsion, Izaya forced a skip into his step and a tight smile onto his face as he passed the window.

It took more energy than it usually did to pretend. 

With a flourish, he slipped into his room and threw himself down onto his cot, bounced twice, and crossed his legs. The woman in the plastic cuffs was leaning against the rounded green payphone, eyes puffy and breath shallow. Her hair was tousled, and her flannel was tucked over one arm; it looked absurdly like the towel a waiter might carry to a table of VIPS to ask what wine pairings would suit their pallets. Izaya waved. She chuckled bitterly. 

"They're sending me upstairs," she said in monotone. Izaya propped up his chin with his hand, and she went on, eyes glued to the ceiling. "It's my first time at a facility. An institution? This -- sort of hospital." She raised her hands at the wrists as high as the restraints would allow, gesturing to their rather unfortunate situation. They dropped back down to swing limp at her waist.

"I don't actually -- I'm not from around here." Izaya already knew that, of course, he could tell from the lilt of her western accent, but he raised his eyebrows anyway, as if this was simply fascinating. "I'm from Missouri. I'm a rancher with my family. I was down here for a month to visit my uh -- my brother. The cops killed him." The words gave her lull, as if they were a punch to the gut. "They didn't help him. He was -- because he thought I was dead. I had an outburst, an attack, one of my fits, whatever you wanna call it. I told him I was gonna -- um. That I was gonna. And he -- " She finally looked at him, and furrowed her forehead. She had a rigid face, so the wrinkles were tiny, like a school of tiny, clustered fish. She seemed to have at last noticed he was there. "How many times have you been here?"

"This will be my .. " Izaya twisted his mouth to one side, then the other, as if tasting his words. "Fourteenth? Yeah. Fourteen times." His heart ached in his chest. There was nothing there, not even for her, and it ached. At her countenance of disbelief, he saluted her with his carton of fat free milk, as if pronouncing a toast.

"Cheers. Welcome to therapy."

She burst into tears. 


End file.
